Unmarked
by SnorkackCatcher
Summary: Participation in the game of power has left Lucius Malfoy with many marks. Marcus Flint has none, and Lucius finds this appealing. But there are many complications in the course of their six year relationship.


**Part One: Rise**

The first time that Lucius catches sight of Marcus Flint, only long experience of masquerade saves him from openly staring.

He turns to his host with a casual request to know who the boy is. Bertram Nott is no fool and Lucius is in no doubt that he understands the reason for the inquiry, but that does not matter. When Nott informs him that it is Caius Flint's son Marcus, his voice is as bland as that of any Ministry bureaucrat.

As Nott drifts away Lucius cannot help but watch the boy – no, _not_ boy; the young _man_. Physically powerful, not conventionally good-looking, but with a raw masculinity that is far more appealing. He has known other young men of this type; known them intimately, in fact. But he has seen nothing comparable since Alistair Crabbe and Brian Goyle were the same age as this Flint, when they were all in the first flush of their manhood – young, and exhilarated by their birthright, and as yet unmarked by their participation in the game of power.

Young Flint's voice can be heard from across the room, loud and brash. His conversational abilities do not seem unusually stimulating, but then neither were those of Alistair or Brian, and Lucius had never expected this of them. Their great value had lain in physical stimulation, not mental.

Flint turns and Lucius catches his eye; a brief exchange of glances, a moment in passing. He nods in acknowledgement, an ironic smile on his lips at the expression of curiosity on the young man's face.

He makes a mental note that Flint will be one to watch.

-----

Lucius allows himself a smirk as he strides away from Flourish and Blotts with his son at his heels. He is content to pretend not to notice the obscene gestures that Draco is making at the Weasley brats. At worst, he has just rid himself of a dangerous object that marks him as a Dark wizard, something that gives the lie to his public persona. And at best … there is the possibility of settling a number of old scores.

As they pass Quality Quidditch Supplies, he glances down at his son with affection. "Come, Draco. Let's see about that racing broom you wanted!"

The child looks sulky as he follows him into the shop. "I still won't get the chance to _play_, will I? Not like _Scarhead_ in Gryffindor with his special _privileges_ and his special _broom_ …"

Lucius has heard all this far too many times before and listens with only a fraction of his attention. But although Draco's complaints about Terence Higgs' lack of skill are clearly coloured by bitterness, he is surely correct that the recent Quidditch successes of Slytherin House have been based solely on goalscoring. And he and Narcissa have many times watched with pride as their son soared above the grounds of Malfoy Manor on his broom. He is confident that Draco would make a far better Seeker than Higgs could ever be.

And he finds himself in an indulgent mood … "Well then, Draco. Perhaps we need to give the team captain a little nudge in the right direction."

-----

"Professor Snape owled to say you wanted to see me, Mr Malfoy?"

Lucius starts at the unexpected but familiar voice. He turns slowly to see the young man grinning at him. Confident, undoubtedly slightly nervous, hiding it well enough to maintain face but not quite so aggressively as to provide a direct challenge to the older man. An attractive combination. In more ways than one.

"Mr _Flint_," he drawls, speaking more slowly than usual to conceal his shock. "Good grief, don't tell me that you are the Slytherin team captain?" Did Draco mention this? He cannot remember. He wishes now that he had paid closer attention to his son's litany of complaints.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, well." Inwardly, he gathers himself; now is not the time for anything other than his original purpose. Not yet. "I have heard that your team face certain … difficulties. Perhaps your Seeker is not as adept as he might be? Or it may simply be that the opposition have superior brooms? Both would seem to be a serious handicap indeed. Of course, the first of these is entirely _your_ domain."

Flint makes the connection readily. "Yeah, maybe we should look for a new Seeker," he says with a knowing grin. Lucius approves. "Find someone young we can train up to take over from Terry, so he can concentrate on his N.E.W.T.s? Won't help if that Potter kid's flying a Nimbus 2000, though."

"That _is_ a problem," Lucius tells him smoothly. "Perhaps I can help? I have a natural wish to see my old House continue to enjoy success. I understand a new Nimbus model has just become available; possibly – if I could arrange it – your team would benefit from being equipped with these? I'm sure that you could find a suitable Seeker to make the most effective use of the broom."

"Thank you, Mr Malfoy, that's a _very_ generous offer," says Flint, his grin widening. "I've an idea or two for who we might get to play. Don't suppose your son would be interested? He looks like he'd be a good flier."

"Oh he is, indeed he is," says Lucius, pleased that Marcus adapts so readily to this simple game. "If you will excuse me, I shall take the opportunity before the train leaves to inform him that his House may have need of him. I'm sure he will be eager to assist you in any way he can."

There is a look of almost trollish cunning on Flint's face as he takes his leave, his robes tight around muscular shoulders. Lucius catches himself before his thoughts can rest too long upon what is concealed by those robes. It has been a while since he has indulged himself in this way.

He forces his eyes away, gazing through the clouds of steam that fill the platform; and sneers as he catches sight of the Weasleys looking about them with worried, almost panic-stricken expressions. Perhaps they have temporarily lost one of their brood.

He hopes that if all goes well with the diary over the next year, they will lose one of them permanently.

-----

Lucius' luck is mixed. Much does go well with the diary that year. But not all. And not enough.

On the two occasions Lucius is forced to meet with Dumbledore during that time, it is all he can do to keep his mind closed to the old man's subtle Legilimency, to prevent him from seeing the entire plan laid bare in his thoughts. Already he seems to understand far more than he should.

And that accursed interfering brat _Potter!_ After the boy's insinuations about the diary, Lucius knows that he has been fortunate to escape with a mere setback instead of a disaster. And yet … the old scheme to attack Dumbledore through his school truly had been ingenious; without Potter, it would also have _succeeded_. But that damnable diary! For eleven years it was more trouble than it was worth to Lucius, a Dark object, a danger if discovered, and yet never more than one of the Dark Lord's toys. He is sorry to see the plan fail; but no, he is not sorry to see the diary permanently destroyed.

Narcissa knows only the general outlines of his plan, but she understands her husband too well for full concealment. The heartiness he shows on his return from Hogwarts contains more than a small measure of relief, and he knows she can tell this. And in turn he can see her own relief that he has escaped serious consequences. They celebrate the conclusion of the episode in their usual way, one that for the moment drives all thoughts of Flint from Lucius' mind.

But he will let neither her nor their son know the full facts. Some things are best left unsaid.

The letter from the school governors dismissing him is merely a secondary irritant, a pawn lost through careless play. He still retains most of his pieces in a sound position for future moves.

-----

It is the end of the school year when Lucius sees Flint again. Another day, another trip to the station, another small surprise. He appreciates the symmetry.

He nods in Flint's direction as he waits for Draco, thoughts occupied elsewhere, but notes with a sharpening of attention that Flint looks back at him with equal interest.

Lucius is not one to waste a possible opportunity where it presents itself. He beckons to the young man and is pleased to see him readily walk over through the crowds on the platform.

"Mr Flint," he says, smiling crookedly. "I hope my son acquitted himself well after the little … hitch at the beginning."

Flint has evidently gained further in confidence over the year. Lucius realises in slight shock that he is now _legally_ a man. "It's a shame they stopped Quidditch, Mr Malfoy," Flint tells him. "Just as Draco was getting good. But you must know all about … have heard about our little troubles."

"Oh yes. Oh yes indeed." He has no idea how much Flint knows, and whether or not that inelegant statement was a probe for information. But he has no intention of enlightening him on the matter.

"Still, we'll play again next year, and we'll win the Cup then. Don't want to finish on a low note, do I?"

"Certainly not." Lucius smiles; it is a smile that Flint will recognise, the smile of a man who senses a possible goal-scoring opportunity. "Well, Mr Flint. Have you given thought to what you might wish to do after Hogwarts?"

"Something good, I hope! The Ministry, I suppose. Best chance for a young Slytherin to get a position of influence … these days, isn't it?" Lucius again notes the slight pause before the words _these days_ and has to admire the nerve Flint shows in testing him in this way. He has learned the basics of the game of power well, although he shows a tyro's lack of finesse.

"Of course, Marcus. It has always been a valuable place to begin one's career, whatever one's eventual goals may be." His use of Flint's given name for the first time may or may not register. There are many things in which Lucius is willing to educate him. Subtlety is certainly one of them. He smiles again, a smile that might be considered to hold great meaning, or might not, depending on how Marcus chooses to read it. "Perhaps … when you have completed your studies, you should get in touch with me? I have a certain modest influence at the Ministry, and am always willing to assist deserving young wizards such as yourself."

Flint grins. "Thanks, Mr Malfoy. I might just do that."

-----

He does.

Lucius is quite absurdly pleased when he receives an owl from Marcus Flint at the end of the following year. He writes back three days later; a carefully calculated period of time, short enough to show definite interest, long enough to maintain the appearance of detachment.

They meet in Hogsmeade, in a small cottage that Lucius secretly maintains on the outskirts of the village. He is satisfied to see that Marcus still looks the same, still unmarked by the worst that Beaters and werewolves could do, still eminently worthy of being openly stared at.

He does not do so, of course. This is not a game of Bludgers. Instead he listens with the appearance of great attention as Marcus talks about his plans and prospects; he is just as loud as before, but not now so brash. His conversation is still not the most stimulating, but then Lucius does not expect this of him. And he still looks at Lucius with curiosity.

Lucius smiles inwardly. It seems that he, Lucius Malfoy has the _hots_ for Marcus Flint, as the saying goes, and he is perfectly willing to acknowledge this motivation to himself. Marcus will not be the first young man he has made a play for, and he will not be the last. He is lucky in his wife. Narcissa will tolerate diversions of this kind, although never understand them. But she is a Black. She knows only too well how the game of power is played; they have played it together many a time.

But this is a game he plays solo.

"I see," he says eventually as the younger man runs down. "Well, Marcus, it just so happens that I ran into old Horace Slughorn the other day." He smiles at the blank look on his companion's face. "Ah yes, I'm afraid you wouldn't have known him. An interesting man in many ways, and very well-connected. He was Severus' predecessor as Head of Slytherin House. He informs me that there will shortly be an opening in the Goblin Liaison Office as assistant to Cuthbert Mockridge."

"Oh, I see …" Marcus looks unsure at this.

Lucius hastens to explain. "A branch of the Ministry that is _very_ much underrated, Marcus – except of course by those in the know. I am afraid we must accept that the goblins have a strong influence on the financial transactions of the wizarding community. A man who attains a good position in the Goblin Liaison Office thus finds himself in a good position to understand and to _manipulate_ the entire commerce of our world."

Marcus looks interested, as indeed he should. "Would you put in a word for me, Mr Malfoy?"

Lucius nods graciously. "Of course. As I said to Mockridge, it is important to staff such offices with _reliable_ people. As for the man who currently runs it –" his nostrils flare "– well, the sheer idiocy of placing a Mudblood like Cresswell in charge of such an office, a man who can have no understanding of the long history of relations between wizards and goblins, defies all description. A young pure-blood wizard such as yourself could travel far and fast under Cuthbert's tutelage."

"Thank you!" Marcus sounds surprised to Lucius' ear, genuinely appreciative. His next words have more of a ring of calculation to them. "Not that I'm not grateful or anything, but why are you doing this for me?"

Lucius smiles. He judges that the time is not ripe for a bold move. He is not yet sure of the man, not at all. And there are many ways in which placing someone like Marcus Flint in the position could be profitable. Lucius is uneasily conscious of the twinge on his left forearm. One day soon, he may be required to meet old obligations. It would be as well to have as much of value as possible to bring forward as a welcome-back gift, and he suspects that mere sabotage at the World Cup, however entertaining, will not be enough to show the soundness of his intentions.

A hint, then. "Well, Marcus, I am sure you will have much of interest to tell me, whenever it should be that we next meet." He smiles again. "And you know – I rather fancy … myself as a patron."

He does not miss the renewed expression of curiosity, almost of eagerness, that flashes briefly across Marcus' face.

-----

Their meetings are indeed profitable. Oh, very much so.

Marcus has an ear for interesting snippets, and over the next few months is a far more useful and reliable source of information for Lucius than Cuthbert Mockridge, too embittered from his failure to secure the top job, could ever be. And even better, he seems genuinely _pleased_ to meet and discuss such matters from time to time. Their conferences attain an air of easy amiability that Lucius finds most promising.

And thus one afternoon after a light lunch and some excellent wine at a discreet restaurant, during which Marcus has passed on some very interesting goblin speculations about the financial status of Ludo Bagman, he says jocularly – and experimentally – "Excellent work. You know, you're a fine specimen of young wizarding manhood, Marcus!"

Marcus grins. "As are you, Mr Mal … Lucius." Marcus is using his _first_ name? This is worthy of note. "Well, older wizarding manhood in your case, but you know what I mean!"

Lucius does not choose to grin, but his smile is broad. "Ah yes. You know, in past days it was quite common for older wizards – such as myself – to take younger men – such as yourself – under their wing, as it were. It could be of mutual benefit."

"I'm sure it could." Marcus raises his glass. "Here's to the old days then."

Lucius raises his glass casually in response and smiles. "Of course, in those days there were _other_ practices which have since fallen into disuse," he continues. He is careful to make his next line light, almost humorous. "Would you believe that it was even considered appropriate for the older wizard to teach the younger one the … most effective ways to appreciate his body?"

"A pity. I'd have liked to see how that worked."

"I wonder if you really would." Their eyes meet, and Lucius attempts to suggest more with his gaze than he can with his voice. This is highly prom …

"Do you fancy me, Lucius?"

"What?".

"Do you _fancy_ me or something? Isn't that what all this older-wizard-younger-wizard bullshit is really about? You've been hinting and insinuating for months but never actually coming _out_ with it."

Lucius, thrown off balance, plays for time. "And your reaction to what you think I mean ,,,"

Flint interrupts again, looking him directly in the eye. "Is, it's fine by me. That's the way my wand points too. Haven't you bloody _realised_ that by now?"

An expression of shock passes briefly over Lucius' face, then he stands abruptly. Marcus matches the movement. He looks around to ensure that no-one is watching, then with a compulsive gesture reaches out and grabs Marcus' arm to Apparate them both away.

A startled Marcus looks about him and grins at his new surroundings. "Your Hogsmeade cottage, eh! Nice thought …"

"Shut _up_." Lucius has been kept waiting far too long for this moment and kisses him hungrily, a kiss that rapidly catches fire as Marcus responds in kind. When they find themselves in the bedroom, Lucius is unable to remember how they got there, nor at what point their robes were discarded, but neither does he care. He pauses for a moment from the pleasure of running his hands over Marcus' nakedness to let his eyes drink him in; oh yes, _oh yes indeed_, his first impression had been _exactly _right. Not even Alistair Crabbe and Brian Goyle in their youth quite compare to this Marcus. A muscular physique that is firm but not exaggerated, a chest with its coating of hair but never _too_ thick, a body as yet unmarked by scars or injury …

"What's that mark on your arm?"

"What?" Marcus' words have startled him again.

"_That._" The young man points with fascination at the Dark Mark that by now is clearly visible on Lucius' left forearm. Lucius cannot believe that he has been so foolish; in his desire, he has forgotten the need for concealment.

"A … an unpleasant reminder of being placed under the Imperius Curse in the war," he says, quickly falling back on a long-prepared story. "The Death Eaters thought it amusing to mark their victims. Please Marcus – I prefer not to talk about it …"

"Right." Marcus is clearly torn between disbelief, curiosity, and lust; but fortunately the latter wins out. He runs his fingers briefly over the Mark, and then over more interesting areas that only fuel the urgency of Lucius' desire. "We're not here to talk anyway, are we?"

"No. No indeed." He reaches for his wand and flicks it, closing the curtains and lowering the lights.

Marcus chortles. "Oh, nice wand-work. What other things can you do with your… _wand_, Lucius?"

Lucius winces. Ah, that hoary joke, a favourite of Brian in the old days. But it was insufficient reason for complaint then and remains so now. Lucius smiles a smile like a hawk swooping on its prey. "Oh, a great deal, Marcus. A _very_ great deal. Let me show you."

He allows his hand to lower. "_Recto lubricius_," he whispers, in a voice like ripped silk. Marcus grins and pulls Lucius down to the bed and for a long time they have no cause to talk.

-----

"Who is he, Lucius?"

"Darling?" Lucius stops at the door and turns in surprise to his wife, who has not looked up from the book she is reading.

"Who is he? Your latest _catamite_?"

Lucius considers flat denial, but rejects the idea. Narcissa knows him far too well. "Marcus Flint."

"Caius Flint's son." She looks up at him now, searching him with her eyes. "Well yes, a strong boy. A good choice, I suppose."

"How did you know it was a _he?_" The question is forced from him before he can stop it.

Narcissa smiles; an almost feral smile. "Because you know very well that if it were a _mistress_, I would kill her. I'm sure I could make excellent use of the poisons we kept hidden from that fool Weasley."

"And _this_ doesn't matter to you?" Again, the question is out before he can stop himself. He has never understood her attitude to his indiscretions. Although that is the wrong term; he has always taken great care to be discreet.

"Oh, it _matters_ to me, husband. It matters a great deal, more than you will ever understand." Her voice is laced with shards of ice, and it gives Lucius pause. "I can't control your little … fetish, but I will be _damned_ if I share your affections with another woman."

"_That_, you need have no fear of." He walks back and takes his wife's hand; the fire in her eyes is matched only by the fire of her sudden kiss. He even considers staying, briefly. She smiles bitterly at the torn expression on his face.

"Go, Lucius. I don't understand and I never will, but I don't _want_ to know. Get it out of your system if you have to and be done with it. Just don't do anything _foolish_. Not _now_. It's too dangerous."

"I won't." She has rarely tackled him directly on the point, and this leaves him with a slight feeling of unease. But he has no intention of losing what he has, or desire to do so.

He really has been exceptionally fortunate in the match he has made.

-----

The pain from the sudden flaring of his Mark is only a physical shock. He has been expecting a summons of this kind for months now. He is fortunate that no-one is nearby to see it burn black.

The scene that greets Lucius when he Apparates to the Dark Lord's side is strange indeed – he struggles to understand what is happening as he takes in his surroundings. An oddly-shaped cauldron filled with a peculiar potion, a bloodied Pettigrew (_Pettigrew?_) weeping, the pleasing sight of Potter bound to a gravestone. Lucius is disconcerted when the Dark Lord proves to know more than expected about events at the World Cup, and is greatly relieved to escape Avery's fate as he watches the fool writhe in agony under his master's curse. Although Lucius knows better than to suppose that his good standing among the Death Eaters is assured. The Dark Lord's praise for 'faithful servants' pointedly excludes all those present in the circle.

The events that follow are still stranger.

When that infernal brat Potter escapes yet _again_, there is near-panic among some of the Death Eaters whom the Dark Lord has named in the boy's hearing. Lucius is more sanguine; he realises that Potter's _bona fides_ will not be improved when he returns clutching the body of another student, and that he has heard no names except those already accused and cleared. There are good chances that the _important_ people in the Ministry will not give credence to his story. And Lucius certainly is not fool enough to voice doubts in front of the Dark Lord.

Lucius assists in whipping the faint of heart back into some semblance of order, but nonetheless leaves in haste and with relief when they are dismissed. He and Narcissa immediately make plans to flee if Potter is believed. Doubtless the Dark Lord will have a base of operations that they can run to; they will be in no danger there.

They quickly tour the safe places they have prepared if hide-outs become necessary, secreting the more valuable Dark Arts materials for future use. Lucius does not bother to secrete money. He knows from experience and from discreet questioning of Marcus that the goblins of Gringotts will neither refuse the custom of a Dark wizard, nor allow his assets to be seized by the Ministry.

At some point, Draco will have to be told where to find them, but that need not be now. He wants, as he has always wanted, to keep his beloved son out of the firing line for as long as possible.

-----

Lucius breathes a private sigh of relief when he sees what the Ministry – or rather those useful imbeciles Fudge and Umbridge – have made of Potter's report. He is not alone. Even the Dark Lord seems pleasantly surprised with the turn of events. Of course, there is always Dumbledore's band of irregulars to contend with, but these are unlikely to cause them any concern.

He celebrates with Narcissa, and with Marcus, in their usual ways. She is now part of all his plans by necessity. But he will not let Marcus know the full details of his actions. Some things are best left unsaid.

The Dark Lord is pleased to hear of the many helpful connections that Lucius has built up, and orders him to work on influencing Fudge. Lucius has expected this.

What he has _not_ expected is that much of their effort now seems to be directed towards retrieving a prophecy concerning Potter and the Dark Lord; one that apparently predicted the events of thirteen years ago. This is the first confirmation of what had until then been a mere wild rumour, and it leaves him feeling slightly chilled.

His occasional meetings with Fudge continue to go well. The Minister, paranoid about threats to his job from Dumbledore and sensing no threat from Lucius, is receptive to his suggestions that the Ministry keep a close watch on the leader of the Order of the Phoenix and his confederates. And a lucky chance gives him the opportunity to curse one of the Order themselves. Lucius is not one to waste a possible advantage where it presents itself so readily. He appreciates the irony. They have now only to wait for the next time the man is on duty and their enemy will test the security of the Department of Mysteries for them – and even if the man is caught, that will serve only to further prejudice Fudge against Dumbledore. A simple move, but one that achieves both the gaining of ground and the removal of a pawn.

Marcus hears occasional gossip at work despite everything Fudge can do to suppress it, and clearly suspects why Lucius is so exuberant in their lovemaking of late even if he does not fully understand. But then, he does not need to. Lucius merely hints at the state of affairs whenever Marcus inquires – which he does on a regular basis, asking with curiosity, almost with eagerness. The state of their particular affair does not yet permit such confidences, and Lucius finds himself strangely unwilling to make them. He realises, with a sense of shock, that he wishes to protect Marcus from the risks that he himself is running; a dangerous feeling, one he must not let get out of hand.

More importantly, of course, Draco too must be protected from his parents' risks, and Lucius is relieved when the time finally comes for him to return to school and safety. Admittedly, this also benefits the elusive Potter; but then, nothing the brat does at school is likely to cause trouble for Lucius or his son. Dolores Umbridge clearly has ambitions of her own, and there is always the chance that Fudge can be convinced to let her have her head at Hogwarts and give Potter something to think about.

Lucius prepares to meet with the Dark Lord that night with the optimism of a man whose plans have gone remarkably smoothly.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

**Part Two: Fall **

The screams echo in his ears, in his head, in his mind. Lucius does not even recognise them as his own. Every muscle is tormented, every nerve is on fire, every bone is melting …

The pain stops. For a moment, Lucius cannot remember where he is, or why he is there. A diary? He registers the sound of desperate sobs, but does not know until much later that they are his wife's. He can feel his robes hang heavy around him, drenched with sweat, as restrictive as chains.

"_CRUCIO!_" A screamed curse and the pain begins again, worse than before.

"_CRUCIO!_" A brief pause and the pain begins again, still worse.

"_CRUCIO!_" Lucius can no longer properly distinguish the pauses, even as some corner of his mind catalogues them. His body is being ripped apart from the inside out by the Dark Lord's fury …

"My Lord?" Another voice, hesitant, apologetic, yet oddly smooth. Lucius is sure he recognises it. It hints of old ties, old loyalties, old friendship, but comes from no source he can remember or understand. His vision is blurred beyond any hope of use with his tears.

"_WHAT, Snape?_" Snape? He is sure he should know that name. The Dark Lord is screaming at this Snape now. That is good. That must mean the pain has stopped. Lucius cannot think clearly. His head feels as if it is bouncing off the walls of the room …

He cannot stop himself from throwing up, over and over, the reaction hitting him in waves, leaving him trembling. He is faint. He attempts to rise – he cannot remember why – but his weak legs betray him and he slips back to the floor.

As he lays there, sense slowly returns to him. _Whatever_ that diary was, it had evidently been far more than one of the Dark Lord's toys. The residue of the pain is a useful distraction, almost a blessing, as the nature of his humiliation sinks in; surrounded by his peers, observed as he lay screaming, weeping, rolling in a pool of his own vomit.

The way _Potter_ should have been humiliated, not Lucius Malfoy.

This Snape – _Severus!_ His old friend! – is still talking with urgency. Lucius' blood is pounding in his veins and he can barely distinguish the words: "valuable asset" – "important contacts" – "loyal servant" – "one mistake".

"And you care only for the _success of our mission_, Snape?" The Dark Lord's words are almost a hiss.

"No, my Lord; the death of Lucius Malfoy would be a personal regret for me, it would be foolish to deny that," Severus replies. Lucius can see him now, black eyes glittering in a pale face that betrays no emotion. "But he _is_ a powerful wizard, one who is well-placed. I would not presume to inquire as to the reasons for the depth of your anger, my Lord – but perhaps it _would_ be a pity to lose one of your most effective servants?"

The Dark Lord suddenly whirls to face Lucius, red eyes boring into his own. Taken aback and weakened as he is, the ambitions he has harboured since the return of the Dark Lord float to the surface of Lucius' mind. But he is unable to prevent other memories and other loyalties – his son, his wife, Marcus, Severus himself – from becoming accessible for the few seconds it takes for his practised Occlumency to divert the attack into less dangerous paths.

"I see, Lucius, I see," breathes the Dark Lord. "Yes, you are loyal to me, at least to the extent of your own ambitions. But you have grave weaknesses, and you have _much_ to repay." Lucius notes that his master does not specify the reason for the debt, but he has no desire at all to ask. "I have already warned you that I expect better service, my slippery friend. You can be of great value to me, but I will tolerate _no_ more failures. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my Lord." Lucius struggles to his knees. "You are merciful, my Lord, thank you," he forces himself to say once again.

This time, he recognises the sobs as Narcissa's.

-----

"What's the matter with you, Lucius?"

Lucius, startled, brings his thoughts back into focus. He turns his head on the pillow to look at Marcus, who is propped on one elbow, gazing down at him with a serious expression. "Matter?" he asks, sparring for time.

"Yeah. Ever since the end of August you've been acting … funny."

"In what way?" He does _not_ want to answer Marcus' questions on this. He does _not_. Marcus has become his means of relaxation; the times they spend together interludes of pure pleasure away from the thrills and terrors of the game of power. He acknowledges that he has even come to care for Marcus' welfare. He conveniently forgets that the Dark Lord has already seen this in his memories.

"Distracted. Quieter. You've been looking … I dunno, _hurt_ in some way. Seems to have left its mark on you, anyway."

"Mark?"

"You know. Mentally, not physically." He grins lasciviously. "You're still fine there."

A laugh almost escapes Lucius at that. "Oh yes. Yes, you could say so. It's hard to go through life _unmarked_." He makes a very good attempt at returning the lascivious grin. "And you're still … fine there. Not a mark on you … well, other than the ones I've made. And they'll heal quickly."

"That's all right then!" Marcus hesitates, and loses his grin. "So is it true?"

Lucius frowns. His attempts to divert his lover are not working. "Is what true?" It takes a second of two for the realisation to hit home that he has begun to think of Marcus as a _lover_, not merely a distraction.

In answer, Marcus reaches out and traces the Dark Mark now always visible as an indistinct shadow on Lucius' arm. "_This_. Is You-Know-Who _really_ back, Lucius? Mockridge thinks Fudge is talking out of his arse as usual, and I think he's right."

Lucius can sense both danger and opportunity. "I don't know … it is of course possible," he says reluctantly. "But who knows what the Death Eaters' mark would do?"

"I think _you_ might," says Marcus softly. Lucius cannot now mistake the hint of challenge. His next words are clearly meant only for show. "Since you were marked by them against your will, of course."

"Of course." He hesitates. "You seem remarkably curious about this, Marcus. One would almost think that you share their views!"

"And you don't?" The question is blunt, the rider softens it only slightly. "That is, you think pure-bloods should be in charge too, don't you, Lucius? Works for me. Maybe their views aren't _all_ as bad as they're made out to be."

Lucius catches his eyes and does not look away. He feels mild shock as he realises that Marcus is serious. He does not _want_ his distraction – no, his _lover_ – to become involved in this way, however useful he may be as a source of information. But Lucius knows that he cannot afford another mistake; knows that he dare not fail to pass on news of a potential recruit lest someone else does so; knows that he is trapped.

"Well, Marcus," he says, his voice a caress. "Keep talking like that to the right people – I mean, the _wrong_ people – and you _will_ come to the attention of the Dark Lord."

"You think so?"

"I'm sure of it."

"Well, we'll see, won't we?" Marcus grins his knowing grin and lets his fingers run across Lucius' groin and Lucius is once again distracted.

-----

Lucius takes note of Marcus' warning before he dares to approach the Dark Lord again. He cannot afford to be seen as damaged goods. He and Narcissa work hard on their Occlumency, an essential defence against both sides in the war. For even those who are loyal to the Dark Lord must learn, in self-defence, to conceal their weaknesses from him where they can.

The Dark Lord is indeed suspicious when Lucius informs him of Marcus' interest, but to Lucius' gratified surprise he accepts the suggestion that it would be better if Marcus were not marked as a Death Eater, that his chances of maintaining cover in the Ministry would be far better if he were merely a secret sympathiser with their aims. Indeed their Lord seems content to let Lucius play this game how he will. He still seems, in fact, obsessed with this prophecy above all else – cautious, distracted, almost (although Lucius does not dare let himself fully form this thought while actually in the Dark Lord's presence) afraid of what it might say.

His first idea is to ask his father's old mentor to put in another good word for Marcus, but to his great surprise Horace Slughorn is nowhere to be found. His unease increases when subtle questioning unearths the rumour that Dumbledore has suggested that Slughorn should return to teaching. If Slughorn has made himself scarce, he must have suspicions. Lucius has always had his doubts about the man's trustworthiness, although none about his value – just as Slughorn had always seemed to have his doubts about Lucius himself.

He is delighted when he hears that the Ministry have stepped in to fill the vacant teaching position. He has taken great pains to cultivate Dolores Umbridge, and she is exactly the sort of teacher he would wish to see in the Defence Against the Dark Arts job at such a time – a bootlicking idiot with a commitment to authority, no love for Potter, limited ability, and a strong streak of cruelty. An ideal impediment to throw into Dumbledore's path.

What is _not_ good is the continuing failure to retrieve the prophecy. After the inability of the man whom Lucius has cursed to break into the Department of Mysteries (a fiasco which produces little except some information on the Ministry's security measures), that fool Avery makes the unusually sensible suggestion of using the Imperius Curse on a member of the Department itself. Lucius volunteers eagerly for the task. Not only does his access to the Ministry and his Dark Arts prowess make him the person best qualified for the job, he needs to do all he can to restore himself to the Dark Lord's favour. It would never do to allow his unmixed gratitude to go to such a one as Avery.

He has great hopes of Broderick Bode, even though the man fights his curse strongly when he has the opportunity to cast it. But once again, Lucius' potential triumph is snatched from him; Bode falls foul of security measures of which they did not know – and worse still, even now do not understand.

Lucius knows as well as anyone that in the game of power one must take chances. But his position in that game depends on their _success_. He knows that he may need a refuge to flee to if the risks he takes do not pay off; the Dark Lord's base of operations will then no longer be safe for him. To fail is to risk the loss of everything he has worked for.

He and Narcissa make their preparations for this eventuality with care.

-----

"You know what? If I didn't know you wanted me for my body, I'd think you only wanted me for my pillow talk, Lucius." Marcus' humour is not unusually subtle, but then Lucius does not require this of him. Just the pillow talk about the Ministry … and that still unmarked body, as strong a distraction as ever.

He surveys the young man lying naked next to him; no, not even Alistair or Brian in their youth could stand comparison to this. Lucius has not felt the … the _hots_ for someone, this level of simple desire, for many years. "For both. Most certainly for both. Well … even if you could tell me nothing, I would still want you." He can feel himself colouring faintly – this is _definitely_ not something he has felt for many years, a warning sign. He orders himself to cease talking before what he says can reveal too much.

"I reckon I knew _that_ from the first time you caught sight of me." Marcus has not lost his ability to startle Lucius. His lover is grinning knowingly again. "At that party of old Nott's, remember? I saw you watching me. Wasn't sure it meant what I thought it did, but it was a hell of a lot like the way Cordelia Urquhart always looked at me. _Hungry_. Never made me hard when _she_ did it though. So when you kept trying to meet me, I knew what you wanted. I wondered what was taking you so bloody long to ask."

"It would have been … embarrassing to make a mistake." Lucius knows he has no need to explain, but feels he owes it to Marcus to do so anyway. "Many people still frown upon such indulgences. A misjudged proposition that became public knowledge would be _unfortunate_ for a wizard in my position." Lucius does not mention his narrow escapes from such popular disapproval on two previous occasions; he had only just managed to rescue himself from the consequences of his mistakes with Memory Charms, cast before the young men could tell anyone.

"Yeah, your position. How you rate." Marcus' gaze sharpens. "With who, Lucius?"

"What do you mean?" Lucius knows very well what Marcus means, but this is another seduction that needs to be approached with great caution …

"Oh, you _know_ what I mean … or rather, You Know _Who_ I mean." Marcus sounds impatient. "You keep bullshitting me, Lucius. I always make it pretty obvious what I want, don't I?"

"You do." Lucius stops to think. He has to have this conversation at some point, or else risk the Dark Lord's wrath; it may as well be now. "But do you understand the dangers? You could hardly make a public commitment to an organisation that, according to official records, was disbanded fourteen years ago and has never reformed."

"I know _that_. I'm not stupid, Lucius! But in private …"

"… you should not make a commitment either! It is –" he hesitates "– prudent for such an organisation not to publicise itself by … _marking_ new recruits." He cannot miss the spark of interest in Marcus' eyes as they glance at Lucius' forearm. He stares into those eyes; his skill as a Legilimens is meagre, but Marcus is dangerously easy to read and he can detect that his interest is genuine. "Better by far to show your interest in other ways."

"You're talking around the subject again," says Marcus softly. He grins and punctuates his remarks by gently stroking Lucius' cock, a cheap distraction tactic that Lucius is annoyed to find works only too well. "What do you … what does _he_ want me to do? I don't want the Ministry to be the _only_ chance for a young Slytherin to get a position of influence."

"Very well. Then to be _direct_, you would not be formally marked by the Dark Lord as a Death Eater." He hears the quick intake of breath from Marcus as he speaks plainly to him for the first time. "You would be required to do what you do now, but to make greater efforts to seek out information of value, rather than waiting for it to fall into your hands. I can provide you with a means of secure communication. From time to time you might also be instructed to use your position in the Department, or the access it grants you, to acquire some particular knowledge or take some specific action. Failure to achieve such a task would not be treated with tolerance. Do you understand me? Are you prepared for the risks you would be running to your position, your reputation, your liberty and your life?"

Marcus has stopped stroking him now. His face is serious, far more so than usual. "Yeah. Those are the chances you have to take in this game we're playing, aren't they?"

"They are." He seeks out Marcus now, the excitement of one seduction building a familiar urgency for another as he runs his own fingers over the body he wants far more than the pillow talk; a thing of wonder, almost a work of art.

Such a one should always be left unmarked.

It would be a tragedy to lose him to the harrowing nightmares of Azkaban … a tragedy that Lucius can prevent. He pauses. "Marcus, if you should ever need to make your escape, I have prepared certain safe places where you are welcome to go. I will explain to you later how to find them."

Marcus grins. "But for now?" He too is rock hard, the thrill of finally getting what he had wanted translating into physical need.

"_This_." The new openness between them fuels their desire; the passion has never been stronger, the need never more pressing.

-----

"Lucius!"

He looks up from his desk, startled by the urgency in his wife's voice. "Darling? What's the matter?" He gets to his feet and reaches for his wand, but then sees that Narcissa does not look alarmed. Instead she seems _excited_, as if she has just had a stroke of good fortune and cannot believe what has happened.

"Come and see!"

He follows her into the hallway of the Manor. His first astonishment and disgust at the sight of the small figure standing there is soon overcome when he realises from _where_ it has come, and what opportunities it has brought with it.

Narcissa carefully extracts what information she can from the creature, which is eager to help. This is not as much as he had hoped – it is evidently under multiple enchantments, not merely those common to its kind, and there are many subjects it is unable to talk about however hard it tries. But it is enough. It appears that Potter has some hitherto unsuspected access into the thoughts of the Dark Lord, an alarming revelation, but still … it offers in return a conduit into the heart of Dumbledore's Order. A way to strike at his beloved Potter. A way to the favour of the Dark Lord that he and Narcissa can control, and that none of the other Death Eaters can..

It is as if his wife's Mudblood-loving cousin has sent them an unexpected Christmas gift. When the creature has gone they actually raise glasses of champagne together in a toast to the man – and to the downfall of his hopes, to the fulfilment of the hopes of their unexpected visitor, to the restoration of the honour and influence of his wife's family and the advancement of his own.

Yes, he has been _very_ fortunate in his marriage.

-----

The next few months are among the most nerve-racking that Lucius can remember.

The Dark Lord's attempts to retrieve the prophecy have been proceeding with painful slowness; the Department of Mysteries is as inaccessible as ever, its protections as mysterious, although no Death Eater ha dared to comment as their Lord turns more of his attention to other plans. Lucius is there to see his ecstasy at the news that the overtures made to the Dementors have been fruitful, and that twelve imprisoned Death Eaters have been allowed to escape from Azkaban.

Lucius does not consider this an unmixed blessing. The information that Lucius has provided about his cousin by marriage has not yet proved vital to any of their plans, while their erstwhile colleagues will be a significant addition to the ranks. He remembers the Dark Lord's speech in the graveyard, and realises that his newly-liberated servants will find greater favour because of their devotion to his cause, once they recover from the effects of their long imprisonment.

The following month brings a further blow to those Death Eaters who had avoided such a fate at the end of the first war, as the Potter boy finds an unexpected outlet for his tales in a trashy magazine. Lucius and Narcissa prepare once again to run if necessary, but fortunately, the reputation of the publication and its editor are so low within the Ministry that Fudge is merely infuriated by the contradiction of the official line, rather than concerned with the accuracy of the report. It is easy to reassure him and the sycophants he surrounds himself with that these are merely more of the same baseless accusations that Potter had made the night the Dark Lord returned.

Nevertheless, Lucius is uncomfortably aware that there are many wizards and witches who have read the article and who do not share that view. When he visits any public place, they whisper to each other as he passes by, and Marcus reports that Cresswell has questioned him closely about their relationship (fortunately, he does not suspect its true nature). They are forced to be much more circumspect in their meetings, and Lucius chafes at these restrictions.

And then, suddenly, everything changes for the better.

Lucius had never previously paid much attention to Rookwood, but he proves himself useful with a revelation about his former workplace. The plan to obtain the prophecy suddenly boils down to a matter of luring Potter to the Department of Mysteries to take it, and the access to Black that Lucius has provided proves vital to the Dark Lord's elaborate scheme. Lucius breathes a sigh of relief when he realises that this factor has restored him to his position at the forefront of the Death Eaters. When he is selected to lead the mission to the Ministry, it takes all his Occlumency skills to conceal his triumph at the way he has played the game of power and won.

-----

At last, the plan comes to fruition. The scene that greets Lucius when he Undisillusions himself is glorious indeed.

He stands with a confused and terrified Potter at wandpoint, and revels in his moment of triumph. He hears his insane sister-in-law cry, "The Dark Lord always knows!" and he echoes her, enjoying the sight of Harry Potter trapped, helpless, aghast at his own foolishness.

The way Potter _should_ be humiliated, not Lucius Malfoy.

He lets himself savour his victory and only half-listens to the gibbering of the boy as he spars for time, although he has to give him credit for a glimmer of intelligence in deducing their plans. Although doubtless the Mudblood they have brought with them had something to do with that. He suspects that she had a hand in the failure of his diary plan and smiles; another score he can consider settled.

The events that follow are less glorious.

When that infernal brat Potter escapes yet _again_, there is near-panic among some of the Death Eaters. Lucius is more sanguine; the boy has nowhere to run to, no easy path out of this labyrinth. And he certainly is not fool enough to voice doubts in front of the Dark Lord's most fanatical supporter. Still, his relief is great when Potter is finally cornered again, this time in the Death Chamber, with neither friends nor cover to assist his escape.

But then their triumph is interrupted by that accursed interfering Order! Lucius manages to dodge the first curse from a young woman he is startled to recognise as his niece, and desperately tries to force Potter to yield the prophecy to him; but then he becomes entangled in a fight with the Order's tame werewolf, who sadly proves himself genuinely skilled at defence against the Dark Arts. Lucius is almost resigned when a spell from Dumbledore hits him, and he sees that the contest is finally over.

As Lucius sits bound and enchanted to prevent his escape, with leisure to assess the situation, he knows that this time it is a disaster instead of a mere setback. That damnable prophecy! At least Potter himself will remain in ignorance of its contents. He is sorry to see the plan fail; but no, he is not sorry to see it permanently destroyed.

Although it too was clearly more than just one of the Dark Lord's toys. Lucius shivers as he considers this, and wonders what punishments he may have in store. From both sides in the war.

-----

On the whole, Azkaban is surprisingly kind to Lucius. There is, of course, the disgrace, the loss of face, the contempt shown to the very name of Malfoy; all these are indeed hard to bear, but it could have been worse. To Lucius' profound relief, it appears that the Dark Lord has finally gone through with his plan to call away the Dementors now that his return is known to all – the necessity to both replace and combat them a double drain on the Aurors.

Although there is little to do but think, and dream, and remember, at least he is able to retain his pleasant memories to offset his bitter regrets and anger from his failure – continual worry about the nature of the punishments the Dark Lord might exact; the fate of those he cares about, of Draco, of Narcissa, of Marcus …

Marcus? 

Lucius sits up sharply. It startles him to realise that he has mentally listed _Marcus Flint_ among the people he cares about, and he curses himself for his foolishness in allowing such a thing to happen. His relationship with Marcus is a distraction, a mere diversion, a … no, it is no longer that. It is wise to be honest with himself; it is an _affair_. It has become a matter of the emotions for Lucius in a way that he has never before permitted while indulging what Narcissa calls his 'little fetish'. He understands that he should never have allowed himself to place Marcus on that level. Nor should he have allowed himself to tell the boy – no, the young _man_ – so many of his secrets. Compared to his son and his wife, Marcus is not and _cannot_ be allowed to be a rival for his affections!

Still, such memories are valuable to him while locked away in this desolate place. Lucius has never been a sybarite, but he has always had a proper appreciation for carnal pleasures. He misses them greatly now, but although the days are long he refuses to provide entertainment for sniggering guards by relieving himself in a manner that has never been necessary for him since the age of sixteen. But at night, when the borderline between dreams and memory is indistinct, both hands and mind wander; he can sometimes almost feel the softness of Narcissa's delicate breasts touching his chest, his wife's thighs clamped tightly around his own while he drives into her; at other times, it is the tautness of Marcus' muscular back that he seems to sense against him, his hand clasped tightly around his lover's cock while he drives into him; and in the light of the succeeding day he is unable to say which fantasy relieves his tensions more.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

**Part Three: Transition**

Tidings of events outside the walls of the prison are not quickly forthcoming, another frustration to Lucius. He had not expected that the Aurors would keep him informed, but he had imagined that _some_ news would reach him from the Dark Lord's camp, perhaps even a plan of escape. He is not sure whether he would welcome this or not. He is safe here, at least, but there is now little chance that he will find favour with the Dark Lord on his release, however it may come about. In Lucius' darker moments, he worries that there is also little chance of favour for those whom he cares about.

The Aurors try repeated interrogations, of course. With little result, of course. There is no bribe or threat that will persuade him to reveal what he knows. The same goes for Dumbledore's Order. He is surprised when his little half-blood niece is sent to talk to him, and entertains himself by trying to tell if her attempts at persuading him to change sides are on behalf of Dumbledore or the Ministry. Her countenance is haggard, her eyes dark with weariness and horror; Lucius is unsure whether to interpret this as a sign that the war is going badly for the Ministry, and is shaken when he realises that he does not know if he should consider this a good thing or not.

It is when news _does_ reach him that he really starts to worry. At first it is mere gossip between the guards, overheard as they pass by; little snippets that Fudge has resigned his post and been replaced by some more forceful candidate. Lucius finds this a matter for amusement rather than concern; he is not surprised that Fudge has been of no help to him in his predicament. He had always expected to be thrown overboard by the man if it threatened his political career.

Later, at the turn of the year, a guard begins to slip him messages from time to time, pieces of parchment on which words appear when Lucius touches them, and which crumble into dust afterwards. This development is a message in itself, an intimation that the Dark Lord has an asset within the prison – although the knowing sneer on the man's face suggests that he has been bribed or blackmailed into assisting, and is thus an unreliable ally at best.

But the contents of the messages are more alarming. The first tells him that Draco has taken the Dark Mark, that the Dark Lord has entrusted him with a dangerous mission, that he should be honoured. Later he learns that the boy is drawing on the family resources, that in some way Severus is watching over his son at school, but that Draco has not yet accomplished this mission, whatever it may be. Lucius forces a proud smile for the benefit of the watching messenger, who may be carrying the news of his reaction back to the sender, but inside he shakes with a mixture of terror and fury; this is clearly a punishment for his failure.

There is no news of Marcus, but his concern for his son drives this from his mind; here in Azkaban, he can no longer protect the boy from his parents' risks.

-----

When the Aurors do finally provide him with news, it is devastating.

Lucius is surprised when his niece and her colleague arrive to interrogate him again after so many months – surely they do not expect him to talk after all this time? But it turns out that they have come to give information as well as ask for it. Lucius struggles to take in the story that they tell. The Dark Lord has ordered his son – _his son!_ – to kill _Dumbledore_, of all people. A suicide mission, and yet he has so nearly succeeded.

He listens impassively as they tell him of the boy's plans, of his clumsy first attempts, of his faltering at the last. He does not know whether he should be proud or disappointed, but leans towards the former; he knows from experience that it is no easy thing to kill for the first time, to split one's soul, especially when face to face with one's victim. When they tell him that his old friend has saved his son by taking the task onto his own shoulders, he feels a surge of gratitude stronger than any he has ever known.

Narcissa is not yet under arrest, but this is probably only a matter of baiting a trap for Draco. The house will be watched continuously. But she will know that it is not yet time to flee to a place of safety. The Aurors follow up their shattering news by asking for his assistance, of course, but he refuses, of course; the irony is that he could give none even if he wished to. Severus will certainly not be fool enough to allow Draco to approach the Manor.

His lip curls when his half-blood niece pats him on the arm in apparent sympathy as they leave; he does not believe in her sincerity for one moment. It is not until he is back in his cell that he discovers the piece of parchment she has passed to him, an open offer of protection and amnesty for himself and for his loved ones in exchange for assistance, and instructions for how to contact the Order should he ever have the opportunity.

He realises as he watches it crumble into dust that he is actually giving the offer consideration as an option, and shudders.

-----

Lucius is even more surprised by the next message he receives. When the guard hands him the note with a smirk, he assumes it will be merely another version of what the Aurors have already told him. Instead, it tells him bluntly to be awake that night, to be prepared for an escape. He reads it in disbelief that such a thing can happen after all this time. As he waits for long hours that evening, he is unable to decide if it is merely a trap set to kill him or to give the Aurors an excuse to keep him here permanently. And if the plan should by any chance be genuine, he cannot tell which side has arranged it.

But there is little he can do but go along with it in the hope that it may be turned to advantage. He realises that whoever is behind the arrangements must know this, and feels a slow-burning resentment building as the hours pass.

Midnight comes and goes, and when the guard who has passed him the notes finally opens the cell door he has to fight the twin urges to batter the man's head against the stone wall, or to cower in a corner of his cell and refuse to come out. But more practical counsels prevail and he does neither, merely throwing the Invisibility Cloak that the man has brought over himself and following him, almost meekly, through the corridors of the prison, trying to ignore the noises made by his fellow prisoners.

At every moment he expects to be stopped, for a shouted spell to fly towards him, but his progress is absurdly if alarmingly straightforward as he is led to a small door in the side of the prison and then out onto the jagged rocks of the island. Two cowled figures are there to meet him, and for a moment he freezes in terror until he realises that they are of merely human height. One of the figures waves a wand, and Lucius can feel the binding spells that have been placed on him dissolve. He follows them in a dreamlike state to the small boat that is waiting there, and embarks with them in silence. As the boat slips away from the jetty and the dark, menacing shape of the prison recedes into the distance, he fights down a mad urge to laugh at the absurd ease with which escape was made in the end. If this _is_ escape, and not merely a prelude to destruction.

He turns to the hooded figure nearest to him, and asks, struggling to control his voice, "Who _are_ you?"

The figure does not answer, but instead merely lowers its hood. Although the moon gives little light Lucius sees a flash of pale hair and a face that he longed to see for the past year.

"_Draco_," he breathes, and his son smiles at him, a smile at once joyful and far, far too haunted; they embrace and suddenly Lucius is holding back a sob and Draco is weeping unashamedly, tears streaming down his face as he hugs his father as tightly as if he were still five years old. "How … _how_ are you here?"

Draco's brittle smile returns. "The Dark Lord … allowed me to be the one to fetch you, Father, when the arrangements were made. A … bonus for success. Not mine –" his voice is both bitter and thankful "– Professor Snape's." Lucius looks up to see the other figure lower its hood, and his old friend offer him a wintry smile.

He turns to his son. "Then … the rumours I have heard, are they true … what was asked of you?"

"They're true, Father." His son's voice shakes.

"Have you … did you … have you received …"

Draco says nothing, but rolls up his left sleeve, and even in the dim moonlight Lucius can see the dark skull there, _there_ on his son's arm, the arm that he had wished to be left unmarked, and again he has to fight twin urges, to howl in anger and to laugh hysterically in fear.

-----

As soon as they reach land, Severus places a hand on Lucius' arm to guide his Apparition to the Dark Lord's headquarters. Lucius had known this must be coming, but the reality is still unsettling after so long in isolation. He summons his knowledge of Occlumency and carefully smoothes the maelstrom of thoughts in his mind; beside him, he can see Severus doing the same.

Lucius allows his gratitude, uncertainty and trepidation to show when he thanks the Dark Lord for his release from Azkaban, and also a mere trace of his anger at what has happened to Narcissa and Draco, neither too much nor not enough to make his master suspicious of his loyalties. And in truth, if the hand of the Dark Lord can reach so easily into Azkaban to secure his release, there is surely no reason for his loyalty to waver from the one who offers him opportunity for his ambition?

The Dark Lord seems almost amused by Lucius' fervently expressed thanks. "How can you ever repay me, you ask, Lucius?" he asks. "Do not imagine I have rescued you from prison solely for the benefit of Severus. No, I have a task for you in which your former _associations_ may prove useful. Let us hope that you perform it more efficiently than your previous one."

"I thank you for the chance to redeem myself, my Lord," mutters Lucius, but inside he shrivels in fear. There is something in the way those words are spoken that seems directly aimed at Marcus, and he does not know what may be asked of them.

"Well, we will see," says the Dark Lord. Lucius listens with outward appreciation but inward apprehension as the plan is outlined; the Dark Lord wishes to obtain something – its exact nature is once again unspecified – from a Gringotts vault, and Lucius is to lead an assault on the bank. He is to use his 'special influence' with Marcus (Lucius can hear suppressed sniggers from the ranks of his fellow Death Eaters at this) to make contact with him again. Marcus is to use his access as a member of the Goblin Liaison Office to facilitate entry.

Worst of all, Draco is to be part of the mission force. This is no inadequately and incompetently protected target, no jaunt to the Ministry that will allow for mistakes. Given what Marcus has told him of the defences the goblins have in place for their property, it is tantamount to a suicide mission if they make the slightest error.

"You are trusting me with much, my Lord," he manages to say.

"I believe you are loyal, Lucius," says the Dark Lord lightly. "But we will see whether my trust is misplaced, will we not? You have _much_ to repay."

-----

Lucius looks around at Draco's hideout, and realises that Severus has brought him to one of his own. Draco smiles at his surprise. "Mother told me about your places of safety," he says, attempting to sound casual and failing miserably. "She thought I might need to know."

"She was right," says Lucius shortly. "I assume there is no safe way to make contact with her?"

"Not unless you wish to return to Azkaban," replies Severus, whose mouth twitches at Lucius' surprise. "I believe the notes you have been receiving were her work. She remains loyal to you despite your … outside amorous interest, shall we say?" Lucius cannot avoid a quick glance at Draco to see how he takes this comment, and is further astonished to see nothing but cynical resignation. "When the Dark Lord learned of this arrangement, it provided a convenient conduit for his own message. But now that you have escaped she will be watched all the more closely, of course. There may be Aurors permanently stationed in the Manor."

"Of course." This is disquieting but not unexpected. "Excuse me, I should check the security." He tours the small building to make sure that the security spells are still in place, that nothing new has been added that might be an alert for the Ministry, but everything is in order and he breathes more easily. It is only when he checks the cache of Dark Arts material they had left here that he notices something that is not as it should be, a bottle of poison half empty when it should have been three quarters full. Lucius is shocked for a moment, until he remembers what he has been told of Draco's failed attempt on Dumbledore's life, one that nevertheless almost had the useful side-effect of finishing off the Weasley brat.

He pockets the bottle thoughtfully. Draco receives the news of the Dark Lord's new plan in silence, but Lucius sees him turn even paler than normal, and he knows that his son too has realised the extreme dangers of their task. He pats Draco on the shoulder and seeks out their rescuer, waiting in the kitchen.

"Well, this is a pretty situation, Severus," he says bitterly. "If we attempt this, the goblins will most likely kill us all. If we are captured, the Ministry may very possibly kill us all. And if we refuse, the Dark Lord will _certainly_ kill us all – or worse."

"The Dark Lord's word is law," replies Severus coldly, to Lucius' surprise. "I sympathise with your plight, Lucius, and if there were anything I could do, I would do it. But there is nothing." Lucius is both dismayed and angered by his old friend's indifference, but before he can voice this sentiment, Severus continues in calm tones, "If you had asked me this question a year ago, I would have advised you all to run, to save myself from the Unbreakable Vow that your wife talked me into. But I believe I have now fulfilled my obligations under that oath. If you are worried about Draco's competence, he may surprise you as he surprised me last year, although on this occasion I will not be able to rescue him from the consequences of failure. Perhaps he should have taken Dumbledore's offer to let the _Order of the Phoenix_ –" sarcasm has crept into his voice, and he says the last phrase with the utmost contempt "– take care of you all. Doubtless the trusting fools would still do so, so it is fortunate that you have no means of communication with them anyway, lest you be tempted to betray the Dark Lord."

Lucius listens to this speech in confusion and stares at his friend, trying to discern his motives, and whether he is aware of his niece's offer, but he knows it is futile. Severus is far too skilled an Occlumens for him to read anything in those glittering dark eyes when experts such as Dumbledore and even the Dark Lord have failed to do so. "Maybe you're right," he says.

Severus inclines his head. "I generally am. I have warned you, my friend. I will leave you now; you will have much to do before you can carry out the mission, and doubtless you will wish to consider strategies and formulate plans."

Lucius nods and stares at the space from which Severus has Disapparated for some minutes as he considers and formulates.

-----

As Lucius prepares to leave, Draco's voice arrests him. "Who is he, Father?"

"Draco?"

"Who is he? This man you're making contact with tonight. This man you're … _fucking_."

Lucius winces at the memory this evokes, and considers a lie, but Draco deserves the truth as much as Narcissa. "Marcus Flint."

"My old _captain_?" Incredibly, he smiles. "Big, lots of muscles? A good choice, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing."

"Sometimes I do." This is difficult; he has never been sure quite how much Draco understands of his affairs. He has to force himself to ask the next question. "How did you find out?"

"People talk. People jeer. Greyback –" he shudders "– sneers. As if that half-blood kiddie fetishist had anything to boast about!" Suddenly, he laughs, although there is little humour in it. "You're going to ask him to help with this mad master plan, aren't you?" At Lucius' nod, Draco's shoulders slump. "Wish you were just asking him to give me a place on the team."

"You _deserved_ that place, Draco. You had the talent. All I did was ensure that the politics worked in your favour."

"I know I did," replies Draco bitterly. "I just don't have the talent for this, do I?" As Lucius hesitates, he shakes his head. "I saw you playing this … this power game all the time when I was growing up. I thought I could play too. I can't do it, can I? It's going to finish me, isn't it?"

Lucius steps in quickly before his son grows hysterical. "Do you not want to play, Draco?"

"_NO!_" The yell shocks Lucius into silence. "What am I supposed to say – that anything the Dark Lord wants, I'm happy to do? I thought I _was!_" Draco rests his head on the wall; Lucius realises with shock that he is trembling, and seems to be trying to choke back tears. His voice when he continues is so quiet Lucius can barely hear it. "I'm not. I can't do it, Father. Too squeamish, no guts, I don't know. But I've got no way to stop playing now, have I?"

"I …" Lucius hesitates, and Draco snorts and turns to face him.

"_Go_, Father. I don't _want_ to know what you do with Marcus bloody Flint, and I _hate_ you cheating on Mother. But I suppose you might as well have a bit of fun before we all put our heads in the dragon's maw." He snorts again, them shudders. "_Literally_, if the rumours about Gringotts security are true."

Lucius hesitates for a moment, then realises that there is nothing he can say. He nods abruptly and Disapparates.

-----

He arrives outside his Hogsmeade cottage, long left unused, and takes the time to test for the presence of Ministry detection spells; but it remains unmonitored. This is a good sign; it seems that Marcus has not betrayed him. Lucius rummages around in the drawers of an old desk for some time before he finds and seizes upon a particular sheet of parchment. He scribbles a message upon it to ask his lover to meet with him at their old rendezvous the following night. Marcus will have learnt by now of his escape from Azkaban, and if he still has any interest in Lucius after so many months, may well be watching its counterpart.

He waits in trepidation, and when the single word _yes_ appears in Marcus' handwriting, he is elated. The Dark Lord had, of course, provided the parchment originally, and doubtless distrusts Lucius enough to retain his own copy; but there is nothing there to raise a doubt about anything other than Lucius' libido, and that he is willing to allow.

Lucius waits for a long five minutes, mentally checking over his plans; every tick of the clock, every breath of wind outside seems magnified in volume. Then he squares his shoulders and Apparates to a remote location in the Welsh mountains. Having determined that he is alone, he summons the memory of his son's birth, firmly occludes the memory of his son's Mark, and points his wand at the sky. A silvery fox erupts from the tip and disappears over the horizon.

He Apparates again, his time to a desolate spot on the Yorkshire moors, and waits on tenterhooks for some two hours, checking and rechecking his surroundings for signs of activity. He needs to be where no-one will observe him, but dare not cast more than one spell in the same place, in case the Ministry have ways to track him.

He is alarmed when a large animal eventually bounds towards him, shining amid the darkness, but then he recognises it, and his lip curls. Still, whatever her unfortunate heritage and choices, she is at least family, of his wife's blood, and _his_ choice was made three hours ago. He raises his wand and casts the spell again to return the required information, and immediately Apparates again to the hideout.

Lucius shudders. If he has guessed wrong, he has just condemned himself and those he cares about to a terrible fate.

-----

When the time comes the following evening, Draco is pacing the room. The haunted fear in his son's eyes does not dissipate when Lucius tells him what to expect that night, but there is also puzzlement, hope, and a certain resignation.

Lucius arrives at the cottage early, to ensure there are no signs of Auror interference, but the building is still secure and deserted, and there are few people in the streets of Hogsmeade. He waits, and waits, and then there is a _crack_, obscenely loud in the stillness of the room, and suddenly Marcus is in front of him, _real_ after a year of fantasising, and even Lucius' long experience of masquerade does not save him from openly staring.

"_Marcus_," he breathes. "I hoped you would come."

There is a grin on his former lover's face at those words – another hoary joke that Lucius cannot bring himself to question – and as he steps forward he realises that Marcus has missed him just as much as he has missed Marcus. They stare at each other for a moment; Lucius drinks in Marcus, still as attractive, still as desirable, still as _unmarked_, and can sense the hunger in the younger man even after such a time apart; and then suddenly, almost fervently, they are pulling at one another's clothing and moving towards the bedroom they know so well, and the smooth skin and well-developed muscles that Lucius has imagined so often over the past year are _there_, there against him, and there is barely even time for a wave of a wand before they are joined together, both men urgent and demanding as they reclaim their lover's body.

Afterwards, when they are spent, Lucius settles back against the pillows. "I've missed that."

"So have I!" Marcus turns to Lucius and stares into his eyes. "And now, tell me what _else_ you got me here for, Lucius?"

Lucius winces; Marcus has not lost his ability to disconcert him. "The Dark Lord has a … plan," he begins, noting the gleam in Marcus's eye as he outlines it.

When he has finished, Marcus whistles. "That's _dangerous_. And it's going to blow my cover completely. _And_ it might get us all killed. Right?"

"Correct. The Dark Lord considers that you have exhausted your usefulness in your current position. He intends that you should be Marked and take up … other duties." Lucius brushes the left forearm of his lover with his fingers; a Dark Mark on such skin would be a tragedy. "Does this scare you?"

"Well … yeah." Marcus swallows nervously. "But it's the only way to gain favour with the Dark Lord, isn't it?"

Lucius smiles. The conversation is going the way he had hoped. "But it is _not_ the only way," he breathes.

"Huh?"

Now that it is time to explain, Lucius finds it oddly difficult. "I do not propose to attempt to execute this plan," he says, and Marcus' eyes widen. "In fact, I intend to retreat to a place of safety …"

"He'll kill you!" interrupts Marcus.

"… and hide where I cannot be found." He does not mention that the hiding place will not be his own, nor what information he will have to provide as payment; these details can wait until later. "And he cannot kill me if it appears that I, _and those I care about_, am already dead." Lucius stares directly into the younger man's eyes. "Come with me, Marcus! There is little future for you among the Death Eaters as the protégé of a man who will be seen –" although admitting this has a bitter taste "– as a failure. I can extend the protection given to my family to you. Come with me!"

Marcus contemplates him for a moment, his face a picture of amazement. "No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"_No_, Lucius! Don't you understand? I _want_ to be a Death Eater. The Dark Lord is going to win, and I want to be on the right side when he does! You were the one who helped get me into this in the first place! I'm _staying_."

"And if the Dark Lord chooses to treat you as expendable? You could easily be killed on this first mission!"

"I'll take my fucking chances!" His face softens. "Look … Lucius, if you think you need to run, then run. I won't tell anyone. But I'm not going into some stupid exile with you, however good a shag you are. Anyway," he adds jokingly, "I think I'd rather get myself killed than have to face your wife!"

Lucius has to fight to prevent himself gaping. "Marcus, this is _ridiculous!_"

"No, it's not! You always tried to teach me how to play the – what was it? – oh yeah, the 'game of power'. Well, _I_ still want to play, even if _you've_ lost your nerve!" The sudden silence that falls between them is oppressive. Marcus is the one who breaks it after a minute or two. "Sorry. But … no. I'm not coming. I won't tell anyone what you're doing, I owe you that much, but _no_."

Lucius rises from the bed without another word, throws on his clothes, and snatches up his wand. Marcus watches in equal silence. Lucius' mind is in a whirl at this unexpected development – can Marcus be trusted not to tell anyone? And even if he can, if he goes to the Dark Lord, the secret will not remain so – Marcus is no Occlumens. Once the Order have acted, he, Draco and Narcissa will be safe, but for the next few hours, they are at deadly risk – neither the current hideout, nor even Malfoy Manor itself, is proof against an assault in force. And Marcus is well aware of the location of the former …

Lucius curses inwardly. He should never have told the boy – no, the young _man_, he of all people should know that by now – such a secret. Compared to his son and his wife, Marcus is not and _cannot_ be as important. As he thrusts a hand down into the pocket of his robes, his fingers close around the small bottle that Draco had used.

He turns to Marcus. "One last drink before we part?" he says in a conciliatory voice. "This house seems not to have been searched, and I believe I have a bottle of the '49 vintage left."

Marcus grins and nods. "Yeah, all right." He is obviously making a effort to match the mood of conciliation. "Can't hurt, can it?"

Lucius smiles and retrieves the wine from the enchanted rack in the kitchen that has kept it in condition, hesitating as he prepares two large goblets full. He slowly carries them back into the bedroom, and hands one to Marcus. "Here you are. To your good health."

"Cheers!" Marcus drinks the wine quickly; in many ways, he has never gained the sophistication Lucius had once hoped for. Lucius himself sips more slowly, contemplating Marcus, until his goblet too is empty. "Are you off now?"

"Yes. It's time."

Marcus hesitates. "Good luck then."

He is still naked; the sheets have fallen from his torso; and Lucius stares in deep appreciation at the muscular physique, still firm but not exaggerated, the chest with a coating of hair, still just right, a body still unmarked by scars or injury or the Dark Lord, and he is suddenly glad that he was unable to bring himself to poison the wine, to ruin what is almost a work of art, to leave it blue and asphyxiated like the Weasley boy, to leave Marcus _marked_.

"Thank you."

"Pity it had to end this way, yeah?"

Lucius inclines his head and walks slowly to the door, gathering his thoughts, trying to suppress his feelings of regret. He turns for one last look at his lover.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

There is a flash of green, obscenely bright in the dim light of the boudoir; Marcus twitches once and then lays still.

Lucius nods. A much better solution, although regrettable. But the great advantage of the Killing Curse is that it does not leave a mark on its victim.

Such a one should always be left unmarked.

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**Notes:** Originally begun for the second FAP OTP Challenge in 2006 – it had the same rules as the first, you get two random characters and a random connector to make a sentence, and have to write a story which incorporates that sentence. This time the sentence was "Lucius Malfoy has the hots for Marcus Flint". Many thanks to **kennahijja** for her detailed beta notes.


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